Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
J ervis was in a truly foul mood by the time they broke out of the trees and started around the loch. “That damn rabbit was close enough to kick,” he snarled, sending several pebbles skittering across the footpath.
“Perhaps the cartridge misfired,” suggested the comte.
Orlov allowed a small smile. Though in truth, there was little enough to laugh about. He felt a bit like the shards of stone, bouncing aimlessly about the moors. Yet another day spent in a wild goosechase. He stretched the tension from his shoulders, suddenly feeling weary to the bone. This hide-and-seek mission was taking its toll. He would be heartily glad when it was over.
Would he?
His step slowed at the thought of parting from Shannon. She would return to her Academy and await Lord Lynsley’s next assignment, while he would go . . . St. Petersburg, Baden-Baden, Vienna —to wherever the glitter and gaiety offered a respite between Prince Yussapov’s calls to duty. The tickle of fine champagne, the thrill of a torrid affair, the challenge of purloining some rich peer’s baubles. A wild life, perhaps, but one that had always been perfectly suited to his temperament.
Never linger long enough to care.
But he knew Shannon was no passing dalliance, no wanton whim.
His cynical words to Yussapov on settling down came back to him in mocking clarity. By nature, he had been a solitary beast all his life. And there was an old adage about teaching an old dog new tricks. Yet Shannon had shown him more about loyalty and courage in the last few weeks than he had learned in a lifetime.
And about love.
He cringed at the word, hearing Yussapov’s roar of laughter ring in his ears. Love. He was tempted to laugh himself. But there was no denying the twinge in his heart, sharp as a knife, at the thought of never seeing Shannon again. Did she ever have leave from her duties? Would she consent to taking a week in the countryside with him, an interlude where they might talk about the future could hold.
His mouth crept up at the corners. Maybe an old dog could manage to grovel. Or sit up and beg.
“You find something amusing, Mr. Oliver?” Jervis looked over at him, a dangerous glint in his eye. He had polished off one bottle of claret on the trek through the pines, and was now well into a second—this one of brandy.
Alcohol added to anger and frustration was a volatile mix. Stirred from own broodings, Orlov realized that the combination was now threatening to blow up in his face .
“Merely my own thoughts,” he replied. There seemed no point in sparking a fight at this late hour in the day.
“Wipe that sly smirk off your face.” Jervis suddenly swung his rifle around
“ Attendez-vous ,” said the comte in a low voice. “You are tired, mon ami . We all are.”
Jervis brushed him off. “What am I am tired of is this man’s infuriating insolence.” The hammer drew back with an audible click.
“Come now, surely you English, with your finely honed sense of honor, don’t believe in shooting a man for smiling.” De Villiers exaggerated a grin, looking to crack the tension with a joke.
“The cursed fellow ought to be taught a lesson in civilized manners,” huffed Talcott. “He has been acting far too bold with his betters.”
Orlov was suddenly keen to see just how far Jervis was willing to go. The comte was right—a man didn’t murder someone over the curl of a mouth. Not unless his nerves were stretched to the point of snapping.
“Civilized manners?” He lifted a brow, adding an extra measure of sarcasm to his voice. “And which of you honorable gentlemen am I to look at as a paragon of manly perfection?”
A rush of fury flooded Jervis’s face. “You dare to mock me, you cur?”
“Robert—”
Before the comte could stop him, Jervis shoved the rifle barrel hard against Orlov’s chest and pulled the trigger.
The explosion drowned out De Villier’s cry. Sparks flashed, illuminating Talcott’s look of mute shock.
Orlov looked down at his coat, and for a heartbeat no one moved. The smell of gunpowder swirled as the shot echoed through the surrounding trees. He waited for another instant, then wrapped his hands around the smoking muzzle and smiled.
“Hartley!” gasped Jervis. “For the love of God, help!”
Wrenching the weapon from the gentleman’s grip, Orlov pivoted and in the same motion swung the butt up, catching the valet with a blow to the head. Stunned, the man slumped to the ground.
Jervis turned in a panic, lunging for De Villier’s weapon. Orlov spun the rifle in his hands, a lethal blur of limbs and steel, and whipped around, slashing the barrel across Jervis’s ribs.
No longer looking so lordly, Jervis sunk to his knees, groaning.
Tossing aside the weapon, Orlov drew his hidden pistols. “Help your comrades to their feet,” he ordered.
“S—spawn of Satan,” stuttered Talcott. “No one but the Devil himself could survive a point blank shot.”
“Or someone who took the precaution of removing the bullets from your cartridges,” answered Orlov. “But I assure you, my own barking irons have plenty of bite, so don’t attempt anything rash.”
“ Sacre coeur , you sabotaged our shot and powder?” exclaimed the comte. “Why? What is going on?”
He seemed genuinely puzzled, but then, thought Orlov, D’Etienne would be capable of great cunning. A master of duplicity, deception. “That is exactly what I intend to find out.” He took up position behind them, keeping a careful distance. “Hands on your head, gentlemen. March.”
The crunch of stones set a grim cadence for the walk through the walled gardens .
As the party rounded the corner of the courtyard, Orlov saw the lone bay standing by the front entrance, the remnants of a leather harness hanging from its flanks.
“Why, isn’t that one of Sylvia’s—” began Talcott.
“Quiet.” Orlov felt every muscle clench. Had he made a fatal mistake by allowing Shannon to face the London ladies by herself? By now he ought to know that females could be formidable opponents. Far from being the weaker sex, they were capable of physical strength. And diabolical cunning. His mind began to race through the possibilities . . .
“Slowly now, and stay together.” They crossed the courtyard, Orlov’s mood turning more murderous with each step.
“Open the door.” He gave a savage shove to Jervis as he slid a step to the side. If they were walking into a trap, let His Lordship take the full brunt of it. Indeed, he would almost welcome bullets or blades. It would save him from having to kill the man with his bare hands.
Jervis hesitated, but seemed to sense that the lesser of two evils lay behind the blackened oak. He took hold of the latch and swung it open.
Silence greeted them. The branch of candles stood in its usual spot on the sideboard, casting a whispery light over the deserted entrance hall. Orlov swept the room with a quick glance. Nothing seemed out of place.
“Monsieur,” murmured De Villiers.
Orlov pressed one of his pistols to the back of the comte’s head. “Not a word.” With the other, he signaled for Jervis’s servant to step into the small cloakroom beside the main corridor. The valet was but a pawn in whatever game was being played, but it was best to remove him from the board .
Still slightly dazed, the man made no protest as Orlov closed the door and turned the key.
“Now to the Tower,” he ordered.
The open portal and darkened stairway sent a cold shiver up his spine. “Shannon,” he shouted, deciding stealth served no further purpose. If the enemy was here, he was no doubt well aware of their presence
His own hoarse voice, amplified by the mortared stone, was the only reply.
Talcott drew a ragged breath.
Footsteps suddenly sounded from above. “Mr. Oliver . . .”
Orlov felt the air leach from his lungs as Shannon took shape from the shadows. She was wearing her dowdy dress, but the collar was badly askew and muddied riding boots peeked out from beneath the hem.
“It appears that you, too, have had a spot of trouble.”
“Is everyone alright?” he demanded, seeing the cuts on her cheeks.
She nodded. “Aside from a little wooziness from the drug, in her tea, Lady Octavia is quite unharmed. As are the children.” Her own weapon kept dead aim on the others. “But it was a near miss.”
“Lady Sylvia,” whispered Jervis, his face pale as death.
Shannon’s lip curled in contempt. “I can’t vouch for her safety. Or that of her friends. The moors can be even more dangerous at night.”
“What happened?” asked Orlov.
She gave a terse account of Lady Sylvia’s trickery and her ensuing chase. “I caught up with the coach just in the nick of time.”
His heart skipped a beat as she calmly described the attack. “I managed to hit him—no more than a flesh wound. He will be back.”
“M—my sisters,” moaned Talcott. “You cannot leave them out there to die.”
“Damn,” growled Orlov, a mixture of rage and relief giving his voice an odd edge. As she shot him a quick look, he had to restrain the urge to gather her in his arms and kiss the smudges of gunpowder and grit from her face. “I am tempted to let them suffer the consequences of their own chicanery.”
Shannon gave a slight shake of her head.
“But I suppose we cannot in good conscience leave them to the mercy of the wilds,” he finished. “No matter that it is what Lady Sylvia deserves.”
“Better to collect them,” agreed Shannon. “And then question everyone at the same time. It seems we are finally coming close to fitting this puzzle together.”
Orlov nodded, though he could not shake a nagging feeling that some key piece was missing. “You can hold out a little longer by yourself?”
“Lady Octavia has the children settled in her quarters with hot chocolate and cakes. With the door barred they will be safe enough.” Her eyes flashed with a hellfire light. “Don’t worry about me. If our adversary thinks he can get under my guard, he has another lesson coming.”
Orlov smiled in spite of himself. “If I were him, I would be quaking in my boots.”
Talcott gave a nervous titter. “Lud, one would think you two were trained for the battlefield rather than the classroom.”
Shannon silenced him with a quelling look.
“Come, I’ll leave you to stand guard over these gentlemen in the drawing room. A fire is already laid in the hearth, and the double doors give you clear view of this corridor,” said Orlov. Though loath to leave her alone, he had little choice. “ I’ll have Rawley bring some rope, if you wish to ensure that they don’t cause any trouble.”
“I sent Rawley and the others away to the village with the gardeners,” she replied. She gave a thin smile. “I am sure our London visitors will comport themselves like perfect gentlemen.”
“Else they will answer to me.” He signaled for the men to turn around. “Be advised that any transgression will be punished with more than a birch to the backside.”
“Take care, Alexandr,” she said softly. “A wounded predator is even more cautious. And cunning.”
He touched her cheek, a gesture so swift that it was lost in the half light of the fading day. “Two against one—I like our odds, golub .”
“Help yourselves to some brandy.”Shannon chose a vantage point by the sofa. “Then perhaps one of you would be so good as to light the fire.”
De Villiers went to the sideboard and poured a glass. Jervis joined him. Talcott made a half-hearted attempt with the flint and steel, but his hands were shaking too badly to strike a spark.
‘Sorry,” he mumbled, seeking to still the tremors with a splash of Scottish whisky.
Sighing, she set aside her pistol and took up a taper. She was halfway to the hearth when Jervis suddenly broke away from the two other gentlemen and snatched a sword from the wall. With a menacing slash, he advanced toward her.
“Out of my way. I had nothing to do with what happened this afternoon—if Sylvia made a change in plans, let her answer for it. I don’t intend to wait around for any magistrates.”
Shannon quickly reached for one of the rapiers on display and blocked his path to the door. “You aren’t going anywhere, Lord Jervis.”
“Don’t try to be a bloody hero, Miss Sloane.” Seeing he was cornered added a note of shrillness to his voice. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I swear, I won’t hesitate to use this if I must.” He wet his lips. “I’ve trained with Ludwig von Mulenberg, the renowned Prussian sword master. So trust me, you will only end up as mincemeat if you dare to stand in my way.”
“Von Mulenberg?” The stones suddenly echoed with the clash of steel against steel. “He couldn’t cut his way out of butter with a hot blade.”
Jervis fell back a step under the force of her attack. Sliding sideways, he feinted, then sought to slash her sword arm.
Shannon parried the blow with ease. “You will have to muster a more imaginative combination than that, sir.”
His eyes betrayed a flicker of confusion. “Who the devil are you?”
“No one you should wish to toy with.” Her blade cut a deadly arrebata through the air. “Sit down, Lord Jervis, while your legs are still attached to your torso.”
A tentative punta sopramano probed for an opening. She countered with a spinning combination that nearly knocked the sword from his hand. “ You ought to be the one wearing skirts.”
Swearing furiously, he lunged forward, the point of his weapon aimed straight at her heart.
A deft twist of her wrist deflected the blade. Before Jervis could recover his balance, she angled a hard kick that knocked him to his knees. A flurry of lightning cuts flashed out, and a last sharp slash sent the sword flying from his grasp.
He stumbled back against the wall. Sweat had plastered his fashionable curls to his forehead, and his air of arrogance had dissolved into a look of stunned disbelief.
“Go back with the others, Lord Jervis.” Lowering her weapon, Shannon had already begun to think on what other precautions she might take in order to secure the castle from attack. As she had told Orlov, she had no illusion that a flesh wound had driven D’Etienne off. If anything, it would be a pique to his pride.
Mano a mano . The Frenchman was not used to losing a one-on-one fight to anyone, much less a female.
As she turned, she saw Jervis’s eyes still darting about in desperation. Spotting her pistol atop the curio cabinet, he made a run for it.
Damn . There was no chance to catch him.
A whirlwind spin set her skirts aswirl. Whipping the knife from her boot, she threw it in the same deadly motion. A silvery blur, a lethal whisper—like a hawk, it flew through the air with unerring accuracy.
Thwack . Its point cut through flesh and bone, pinning Jervis’s hand to the wood.
He screamed in pain and crumpled, arms splayed, upon the inlaid mahogany.
Shannon was on him in a flash. “Stop whimpering like a stuck pig,” she muttered, yanking out the still quivering steel and hauling him to his feet. A shake of his collar strangled his moans. “You’ll live.”
“I am glad I did not decide to attempt any liberties with your person. Mademoiselle Sloane.” De Villiers shifted his stance against the stone, his expression unreadable. “I was not aware that hand-to-hand combat was part of the basic curriculum for English governesses. Perhaps the Prince Regent should consider forming a special regiment?—”
“Save your bon mots for some other time,” snapped Shannon. She shoved Jervis toward the comte. “Bind up his hand, before he bleeds all over the expensive carpet.”
Talcott made a small retching sound and pressed his handkerchief to his quivering lips. “God Almighty. She is quite mad.”
“On the contrary, she is quite magnifique, ” murmured the comte.
“I doubt you will think so in a moment.” She motioned to a set of heavy oak straightback chairs set along the wall. “Have a seat, all of you.”
They did as she ordered, though Talcott had to help a half-dazed Jervis to his place. Once there, Jervis slumped against his friend with a low groan. A sound promptly echoed by the other man. Shannon turned in disgust. She would get nothing coherent out of them for the moment, she decided.
The comte was a different story. He had remained remarkably cool throughout the fight. Perhaps too cool. It was time to test his Gallic joie de vivre —if he wished to live for another day, he was going to give some honest answers
“ Alors .” Flicking with a lethal grace, her swordpoint sliced off the two tails of his neckcloth. As the linen floated to the floor, the steel kissed De Villier’s neck. “How do you fit in to this sordid plot?” she demanded.
The comte didn’t flinch. “As naught but an observer, mademoiselle . ”
“You like to watch innocent children be murdered?” Her voice was deceptively soft.
He stiffened. “I have seen far too many people marched to the guillotine to take any pleasure in bloodshed, mademoiselle. The street of Paris were often awash in crimson—a sickening sight that any civilized man should be ashamed of.”
“So you deny that you are working with one of your countrymen—a man by the name of D’Etienne?”
“I am not familiar with the person in question. Who is he?”
“You are in no position to ask the questions.” Shannon drew the blade across his throat. “If you are not in league with him, or Lady Sylvia, then why did you come to Scotland?”
“To be honest, I was a bit bored in London. English society is rather dull—the fashions are gauche, the food is terrible and the ladies have little savoir faire .” He made a wry face. “When Lady Sylvia suggested I accompany her party to Scotland, it seemed like a chance for a little adventure.”
“So you claim you are innocent of any intrigue.” Though Shannon was inclined to believe him, she pressed the point. “Prove it.”
“I cannot.” De Villiers shrugged. “So I suppose you will simply have to go ahead and kill me.”
It was hard not to admire such sang froid . “You seem awfully nonchalant about the prospect.”
“Merely a bit cynical,” he replied. “Having escaped from the Terror by the skin of my teeth, I consider that I am living on borrowed time. I should not like to shuffle off my mortal coil, but if I must, I shall try to do it with a show of grace. ”
“I am not as ruthless as Robespierre.” She drew back her blade. “I shall give you the benefit of the doubt.”
He released his breath in an audible sigh. “ Merci .”
“ De rien .”
He laughed. “My previous offer still stands. In fact, I am tempted to make it a proposal of matrimony.”
“I’m married to my job,” she replied with a twitch of her lips. “But thank you all the same.”
“Teaching children their lessons seems such a sad waste of your talents, mademoiselle.”
She winked. “But as you see, sometimes I get to punish the naughty adults.”